The Empire's Corps: Book 06 - To The Shores...

by Christopher Nuttall

  The Rajah, astonishingly, smiled. “But without retaining my dignity” – he spoke of himself in the first person, surprising Sivaganga – “my position is weak and it will fall. The prestige of the Rajah must not be allowed to slip.”

  It has already slipped, Sivaganga wanted to shout. Did the Rajah really believe that the rest of the aristocracy were unaware of the looming disaster? Sivaganga wasn't the only aristocrat making covert preparations to send his family out of the city. Once Pradesh fell, the rest of the aristocrats would either start running to their estates or launch a coup against the Rajah and his son. Time was running out.

  “I understand, My Lord,” he said, bowing again. “If I may make one final suggestion?”

  The Rajah quirked an eyebrow, invitingly.

  “There is an off-worlder prisoner held in the Prince’s dungeons,” Sivaganga said. He’d had to talk the Prince out of killing the off-worlder several times. The next time, he might fail – and be forced to watch as the off-worlder was crucified by the Prince’s guards. “I wish to suggest that you take him into your personal custody.”

  The Rajah stroked his beard, considering the possible consequences. “I will see to it,” he said, finally. “You are dismissed.”

  Sivaganga nodded, then bowed and knocked his head against the carpeted floor. He prayed, as he started to crawl backwards, that the Rajah could rein in the Prince before it was too late – and that it was not already too late. Surely, the off-worlders didn't want the planet. No one had been interested in their world, save as a dumping ground for unwanted refugees. Maybe they could go back to being ignored.

  He shuddered as he was led out of the Palace. In the distance, he could still hear the sound of guns from the Residency. It wouldn’t be long before they were coming out of the countryside too.

  ***

  Mathew opened his eyes, somehow. He knew that he was dying, knew that his body was gradually breaking down through hunger, thirst and ill-treatment. The food and water they supplied was insufficient, while they hadn’t even bothered to provide medical care. Part of him was mildly surprised that he was still alive – he half-expected that he would never wake up, every time he closed his eyes – but the rest of him found it hard to care. His thoughts kept wandering all over the universe, reminding him of his childhood on Avalon.

  It had crossed his mind that he was going mad, that he might already be mad, but so what? If it helped him cope with his new world, the tiny and smelly cell that he knew he would never leave, it might even come in handy. He’d wanted to laugh, like a madman from one of the immensely bad entertainment programs shipped to Avalon before the Fall of Earth, but his throat was too dry to do more than cough. Perhaps, he told himself, this was the day upon which he would die.

  He heard, in the distance, the sound of angry shouting. Someone had once told him that being immersed in another culture would allow him to learn their language, but he hadn't picked up even a single word. Not that it mattered, he knew; if he escaped, he would stick out like a sore thumb. Even the pale-skinned higher castes looked different from a baseline Avalon native. Their features were sharper, for one thing. He tried to tell himself that just because they looked cruel didn't mean that they were. But the evidence suggested otherwise.

  The shouting grew closer, then came to an abrupt halt. Silence fell; Mathew found himself straining his ears to hear something – anything – from outside the cell. There were a faint series of thuds and a sound that reminded him of a body hitting the floor, then nothing. It struck him that he might be being rescued, that the CEF might be storming the building, but he knew that it was unlikely. If the city was under attack, his captors would not have hesitated to kill him to prevent the CEF from liberating him. Even so, the flare of hope in his chest refused to fade away as someone started working on the door.

  It wasn't soldiers from the CEF, he realised numbly as the door fell open. The newcomers wore bright gold uniforms, making them shine even in the darkened cell. Mathew knew that they would have made excellent targets if he’d had his pistol, but as it was all he could do was sit helplessly and wait to see what happened. The first newcomer strode over to his side, examined the chains securing him to the wall and then barked orders towards the door. A moment later, the mute girl who’d taken care of him appeared, blood running down the side of her face from where she’d been struck. She carried a key in one hand, which she passed to the newcomer before falling to her knees and prostrating herself in front of him. For a terrible moment, Mathew thought that he was going to crush her head under his boot before he turned and unlocked the chains. They fell clear ... but the moment Mathew tried to move, his body screamed in protest.

  The newcomer scowled, then barked more orders. Two of his men came forward and picked Mathew up between them, carrying him through the door and up the stairs. Outside, there were several guards lying on the floor, beaten and bloody. Mathew couldn't prevent himself from smiling, no matter the pain, as he saw one of his interrogators nursing a broken jaw. It seemed that the newcomers had knocked the guards down and out.

  Outside, the sun was so bright that Mathew flinched away from the light. How long had he been in the cell? It had felt like months ... the only clue he had that it might not have been so long was the simple fact that his chin hadn't grown much stubble during his confinement. But did beatings and starvation slow it down? He honestly couldn't remember. Instead, he took a breath of fresh air – despite the faint stench of smoke and decomposing human bodies – and relaxed. If they were taking him to his death, at least he’d seen the sun again before he went.

  They stopped outside a strange wooden box, about the same size as an aircar, and opened a door. Inside, there were two benches, one covered with cushions. His captors carried him into the box, placed him down on the cushions and placed straps over his body. A moment later, the girl was shoved in beside him. Someone had tied her hands together in front of her and wrapped a long cord around her ankles. Mathew stared in disgust; she was no threat to them, yet they insisted on treating her like a dangerous criminal.

  The doors slammed shut a moment later, leaving them alone. Mathew wished he could say something, but his mouth refused to work. Seconds later, the box lurched and rose into the air, then started to shake regularly. It took him a moment to realise that the newcomers were actually carrying the box, with him and his nursemaid inside it. They’d never heard of cars, he realised, even though he was sure that there would be oil deposits somewhere underground. But then, human labour was cheap here.

  He found himself feeling sick as the vehicle kept moving, but thankfully there was nothing in his stomach to vomit up. The girl reached out and touched his forehead gently, then looked away, her dark eyes shadowed and pale. She knew that he was dying ... he scowled inwardly, trying to understand just why they had her in the prison. Did they believe that he would be less likely to hurt her if he tried to break loose? Or was she the daughter of a prisoner who had been put to work? He pushed the thought aside as the vehicle finally came to a stop and was lowered to the ground. There was no way to know what was about to happen, but he had the feeling that he was about to find out.

  The door opened, revealing more gold-clad guards. They pulled the bench out and carried it – and Mathew – through a large set of doors into another room. The girl followed, her hands and feet still bound. Mathew tried to throw her a sympathetic look, then was distracted by an older man peering down at him. Moments later, most of his cuffs were removed and the man was poking and prodding at his wrists.

  “Young man,” the man said, in passable Imperial Standard. “Can you understand me?”

  Mathew had to swallow twice before he could answer. “Yes.”

  “Good,” the man said. “I’m a doctor, here to examine you. I suggest that you refrain from causing trouble. The guards will not hesitate to replace your chains if you pose a threat.”

  “I can barely move,” Mathew said. “Why am I here?”

  “To be healed,”
the doctor informed him. “Lie still and let me work.”

  Mathew wasn't reassured. What sort of medical treatments did they use on this godforsaken planet? Leeches, bleedings and amputations? On the low-tech worlds, he knew, a broken arm could cripple someone for life. Here, if there was any modern medical treatments, they were reserved for the aristocracy. He’d seen quite a few untouchables begging because there was nowhere else for them, their lives destroyed by injuries that could be cured in a few days on Avalon.

  “Heal her too,” he said, quickly. “Her tongue, too.”

  “She was silenced,” the doctor said. There was no pity in his voice. “I cannot help her to talk again.”

  Can’t, Mathew thought, or won’t?

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Such issues illustrate the complexities of international diplomacy, for several different nations were involved, each one with different interests. It proved impossible to hold together a coalition indefinitely without a very clear threat – and there were plenty of times when that threat was far from clear.

  -Professor Leo Caesius. Diplomacy: The Lessons of the Past.

  “The north wall is starting to weaken,” Flora commented.

  Edward nodded, rubbing his eyes. If anything, the enemy bombardment had intensified over the past two days – and their reluctance to continue the fight at night had vanished. The constant shelling had been keeping his people awake and tired, despite the use of stimulant capsules and sleeping pills. Supplies of them were running low too, just like everything else.

  If only we could get supplies into the city, he thought. But every time he looked at the problem, it became clear that it wasn't possible. The helicopters would be engaged by enemy fire as soon as they came into range. As it is, we can't hold out much longer.

  “We might need to start pulling people out of your compound,” he said, sourly. Thankfully, the central compound hadn't been threatened yet, but it was only a matter of time. “You can double up with us.”

  Flora sighed. Whatever differences had existed between the two forces had melted away as the siege took its toll. Commonwealth and Wolfbane personnel lived and fought together, covering each other as the enemy tested the defences time and time again. And they would die together, Edward and Flora both knew, when the defences finally collapsed. It was only a matter of time.

  “We can't move too many supplies now,” she warned. “They’re hitting us hard.”

  Edward nodded. Anyone out in the open was vulnerable, either to a mortar shell or a sniper shot. The enemy snipers had been creeping forward again, despite Marine sharpshooters attempting to take them out. One of them had picked off a Commonwealth soldier only yesterday, firing from over a kilometre away.

  He looked down at the datapad, which listed the remaining supplies. Food and water was on half-rations already, but it could be stretched to two more weeks at most. It was ammunition that was the real problem, he knew; at current rates of consumption, they would run out altogether in less than two days. And if the enemy charged the walls again, the ammunition would run out at terrifying speed. At least they didn't seem to realise that the defenders had only a handful of mortar shells left.

  “But we can't afford to lose the north wall either,” he said. Yesterday, a shell had come alarmingly close to blowing a hole in the wall completely. Another hit and the wall would crumble into dust, allowing the enemy to charge right into the compound. “We have to balance our responsibilities.”

  He rubbed his eyes, wishing for sleep. Offhand, he doubted he had kept such hours since the Slaughterhouse – and he’d been a younger man then, at the peak of human physical condition. It was worse for the Professor and the other civilians, he knew. Some of them were staggering around like zombies, unable to awaken fully and yet unable to sleep. If this went on, they’d end up shooting at shadows – or each other. He’d already had one soldier start shooting madly at enemies only he could see.

  And his Sergeant knocked him out, Edward thought, dryly. At least he’s getting some rest.

  “Take command of the defences,” he ordered, pushing the thought aside. “I’m going to tour the building.”

  The sight that greeted him as he made his way through the complex was pitiful. Most of the maids were so tired that they were trying to sleep, despite the endless explosions shaking the building; most of his soldiers weren't much better off. Thankfully, they were used to the stench of unwashed human bodies or it would have been a great deal worse. He looked into the infirmary and saw the medic – and her volunteer assistants – doing what they could for the wounded. Most of them required the garrison’s medical centre, not what they had.

  “Sir,” a soldier said, tiredly. “Are ... are they still out there?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Edward said, kneeling down beside the speaker. He was so young, utterly fresh-faced, barely old enough to shave. It was easier to understand, now, what the old sweats had said when they’d talked about old man’s guilt. He’d sent this young man off to war, where he’d been wounded – and was still at grave risk of dying. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Eliot,” the young man said. He cleared his throat. “Private Eliot Rosenberg, 3rd Avalon Infantry Battalion.”

  “You guys did well up there,” Edward said, seriously. “Without you, we would have been overrun.”

  Rosenberg smiled. “As good as the Marines?”

  “Definitely,” Edward said. Rosenberg and so many others would have made prime candidates for the Slaughterhouse, if they could have sent them there. Most of the best candidates came from the Outer Worlds, even though Edward himself came from Earth. “You held the line for us.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Rosenberg said. He hesitated, then leaned forward so he could speak quietly. “What are the rules on marrying someone from this world?”

  Edward hesitated. When had Rosenberg had the opportunity to meet someone ... oh, of course. “One of the maids, I presume?”

  “Yes,” Rosenberg said. “She’s wonderful, takes good care of me ...”

  “I don’t think that the immigration office would object, if she chose to marry you,” Edward said, making a mental note to have an older sergeant have a few words with the young man before he committed himself. War brides, in his experience, weren't always as interested in their husbands as they were in escaping their homeworlds. “But are you sure she wants to go with you?”

  “I think so, sir,” Rosenberg said. “But I haven’t asked her yet.”

  “Good luck,” Edward said, standing upright. “And heal quickly.”

  He nodded as he saw the rifle lying beside the blankets. If the enemy broke in, the wounded would sell their lives dearly ... although he knew that they would die. Wounded, unable to move, a single grenade would kill them all. If the ammunition shortage grew worse, he might have to recall those weapons ... but for the moment they’d have a chance to claw the enemy before they went down.

  Silently wishing the young man good luck, he headed over to the next wounded soldier. If they’d been injured under his command, the least he could do was visit them where they lay ...

  ... And pray that he wasn't lying when he told them that the CEF was on the way.

  ***

  Blake Coleman had his doubts about the security of the warehouse the rebels were using as a base, but he had to admit that it served a useful purpose. The untouchables ran the city’s sewer system, among other things, and they used them to move throughout the city unseen by their masters. It didn't take long before Mad’s father explained to him that the warehouse was actually linked to the sewers.

  “Pay attention,” he said, once his class was assembled. Seventeen young men, all bright ... and doomed to a life of servitude by the colour of their skin. “If you get any of this wrong, the odds are that you will die painfully.”

  Mad translated as he looked meaningfully towards a large table, crammed with all sorts of household junk. He hadn't lied to Mad’s father when he’d told him that the untouchables had a
ll sorts of weapons in their hands, they just didn't know how to use them. But then, there were tricks he would never have thought of if he hadn't been introduced to them on the Slaughterhouse. He had no idea who the long-dead MacGyver had been – a Marine Pathfinder, he assumed – but he’d had all sorts of ideas for making deadly weapons from common materials. His book was banned all over the Empire, if only because it would give resistance fighters ideas.

  “Most soldiers – and certainly all generals – will tell you that you need proper weapons to fight,” he added. “That is a myth, spread by men who want their potential victims to feel helpless and cower before their might. There are no dangerous weapons, just dangerous men. With the proper mindset, a weapon can be constructed from almost anything and put to deadly use. Without it ... not a chance.”

  He surveyed their faces for a long moment. They were eager to learn, he saw, but would they have the nerve to use it? Their caste had been downtrodden so long that they might be unable to fight when the time came. Or they might flinch at the wrong moment, only to be gunned down before they could recover. All he could do was teach them ... and pray.

  “This is a bottle of cleaner,” he said. Unsurprisingly, some of them sneered at his explanation. They all knew that it was used to clean aristocratic toilets. “Useless for anything else, right?”

  He grinned as he picked up a second bottle. “This is a bottle of a different cleaner,” he added. “Separately, they’re harmless. Together ... well, you can build a pretty effective bomb out of them, with a few more pieces of junk.”

  Piece by piece, he put together a very simple IED. It would have horrified the local government if they'd understood just how much power they’d inadvertently placed in the hands of the untouchables, even without additional weapons brought in from the CEF. Once it was ready, Blake allowed them to look at it for a few minutes and then took it apart, carefully separating the dangerous components.